Adolescent Primetime Sitcom Star.
So. The end to a pretty awful week. I welcome it gladly.
I have no reason to be up this late, but here I am. Writing. And maybe writing will make me feel better again, like it used to before everything got weird. I hold things in because because in my head it is better to suffer in silence than on repeat for the entire world to see. But, fuck it. Sometimes you just have to lay yourself bare. Besides, I'm too old to give a fuck about appearances. For the last eight years this show has been about ME, flaws and all, and that will not change.
Which means the journaling will most likely remain sporadic. Because if I ain't feelin' it, I ain't feelin' it.
Anyway.
A week ago from yesterday, I took a pregnancy test. After three minutes, two lines appeared. I emerged from the bathroom, hugged my husband, and from there we took turns contacting friends and family. Three days later I was in an emergency room, grotesquely splayed on an examination table with a bedpan shoved under my lower back and a speculum in my hoo-ha. A "poor man's pelvic exam," the attending doc called it. So much for my fancy-pants insurance.
After four hours and another pregnancy test, we learned that I was no longer pregnant. The tears started. They have not stopped.
The idea of motherhood, however brief, was something I actually welcomed. I loved that he fell asleep rubbing my tummy like a golden lamp, enjoyed debating whether it would be a boy or girl.
I know it's not too late, and that we can try again. But I can't help but think about what might have been.
How ironic that the champion of the childfree set completely loses her shit upon learning that she is, in fact, not with child. Pretty fucking ironic, I tell ya.
And four days later, he we are, still in pain (but not as intense) and still bleeding like a horror flick victim.
I want to tell you all that I'm ok, but I can't, because I'm not. But I do appreciate the love and the thoughts and the visits and the cheesy YouTube clips. The simple act of compassion can make all the difference in the world. If only more people were like you guys.
Several hours before the emergency room, I'm at my best friend's house. As our men fall asleep on her couch we are laying on her bed like the younger versions of us used to many years ago. It is our first real conversation in a long while, and it is beautiful and painful and cathartic.
I didn't want to sound like a broken record, she told me. She, the best friend of 20 years who has listened to variations of songs in the key of heartbreak, angst and woe composed by yours truly.
We're all broken records ravaged by time, abuse, and neglect. To some I might be a well-worn copy of Bitches Brew. To others, a damaged Weird Al Yankovic b-side kept for nostalgia. Sometimes you need to break it out, run your fingers along the grooves and scratches and let the tears fall as you clutch it to your chest.
Bad metaphor? It's 3 a.m. and I'm hopped up on ibuprofen, so you'll have to forgive me.
The point is that pain will demand your attention and get it any way it can. Sometimes the message is subtle. Ofttimes, it's not. Nevertheless, heeding the call is important. Imperative, even. Because when you don't, it's only a matter of time before the slow-singin' and flower-bringin'.
Which brings me to...a pizzeria in Madison, Wisconsin, where I met a woman named Lori back in May.
The meeting had been a few years in the making, I suppose. It's not every day that you get a chance to meet the other other woman of your married ex-lover. [Ok, could that sentence be any MORE soap opera-y? Eeeik. "Married ex-lover"? Great. My life has now become a fucking Danielle Steele novel. Please shoot me now.]
Sorry. Anyway, the visit lasted a few hours. It was weird. Pleasant. A little cathartic, even.
To be honest, I doubted her pain. Her blues were not like mine. How could 18 months compare to SEVEN years, I told people.
And then I saw her face.
There is a moment when you can look at a person and see a reflection of everything you went through, of everything you saw and did not want to see. I saw the arguments, the emails, the instant messages. The declarations of love, the promises broken, the clandestine hotel sex, the image of him walking away. All there, etched in the angles of her smile, her eyes, entangled in the bitterness of her laugh.
And on the way home the next day, sitting in the backseat of a rental car with "Pretty Wings" blaring from my iPod, I unraveled. The weirdly intense Wiscon experience coupled with the meet had broken me.
I think what bothers me most, in post-meet conversations with a few trusted friends, is that I will never get an apology. Because at the base of whatever we had was supposed to be friendship. That after so many years he could walk away unaffected and unscathed...still hurts, several years later. That this situation still has an effect on how I handle relationships yet he continues on without even attempting to atone for the damage done, because he does not care. Those years of crying and sleepless nights did not mean anything then, and do not now.
And then the conversation turned to sociopathy.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the friendship, if only because that part seemed genuine. At least I want to believe it was. I want to believe that I did get the chance to see the real him, if only in brief glimpses.
But we are strangers now.
A few months ago when I stumbled upon his Twitter I considered forgiveness. Blame the nostalgia of the holidays. Even added him to my list. Ten seconds later, I took him off. I cannot force forgiveness on someone who is not interested in it, and I cannot make him care enough to seek it. And it is not up to me to extend the olive branch, anyway.
I've played "Pretty Wings" over and over and over because in my fevered imagination, it is the apology he will not make, the validation he cannot give.
I came wrong, you were right
Transformed your love in to a lie
Baby believe me I'm sorry I told you lies
I turned day in to night
Sleep till I die a thousand times
I should have shown you better nights better times better days
And I miss you more and more
...and I have to live with that, even if it isn't easy.
Oh look, the sun has arrived. I suppose I should lie down now.
I have no reason to be up this late, but here I am. Writing. And maybe writing will make me feel better again, like it used to before everything got weird. I hold things in because because in my head it is better to suffer in silence than on repeat for the entire world to see. But, fuck it. Sometimes you just have to lay yourself bare. Besides, I'm too old to give a fuck about appearances. For the last eight years this show has been about ME, flaws and all, and that will not change.
Which means the journaling will most likely remain sporadic. Because if I ain't feelin' it, I ain't feelin' it.
Anyway.
A week ago from yesterday, I took a pregnancy test. After three minutes, two lines appeared. I emerged from the bathroom, hugged my husband, and from there we took turns contacting friends and family. Three days later I was in an emergency room, grotesquely splayed on an examination table with a bedpan shoved under my lower back and a speculum in my hoo-ha. A "poor man's pelvic exam," the attending doc called it. So much for my fancy-pants insurance.
After four hours and another pregnancy test, we learned that I was no longer pregnant. The tears started. They have not stopped.
The idea of motherhood, however brief, was something I actually welcomed. I loved that he fell asleep rubbing my tummy like a golden lamp, enjoyed debating whether it would be a boy or girl.
I know it's not too late, and that we can try again. But I can't help but think about what might have been.
How ironic that the champion of the childfree set completely loses her shit upon learning that she is, in fact, not with child. Pretty fucking ironic, I tell ya.
And four days later, he we are, still in pain (but not as intense) and still bleeding like a horror flick victim.
I want to tell you all that I'm ok, but I can't, because I'm not. But I do appreciate the love and the thoughts and the visits and the cheesy YouTube clips. The simple act of compassion can make all the difference in the world. If only more people were like you guys.
Several hours before the emergency room, I'm at my best friend's house. As our men fall asleep on her couch we are laying on her bed like the younger versions of us used to many years ago. It is our first real conversation in a long while, and it is beautiful and painful and cathartic.
I didn't want to sound like a broken record, she told me. She, the best friend of 20 years who has listened to variations of songs in the key of heartbreak, angst and woe composed by yours truly.
We're all broken records ravaged by time, abuse, and neglect. To some I might be a well-worn copy of Bitches Brew. To others, a damaged Weird Al Yankovic b-side kept for nostalgia. Sometimes you need to break it out, run your fingers along the grooves and scratches and let the tears fall as you clutch it to your chest.
Bad metaphor? It's 3 a.m. and I'm hopped up on ibuprofen, so you'll have to forgive me.
The point is that pain will demand your attention and get it any way it can. Sometimes the message is subtle. Ofttimes, it's not. Nevertheless, heeding the call is important. Imperative, even. Because when you don't, it's only a matter of time before the slow-singin' and flower-bringin'.
Which brings me to...a pizzeria in Madison, Wisconsin, where I met a woman named Lori back in May.
The meeting had been a few years in the making, I suppose. It's not every day that you get a chance to meet the other other woman of your married ex-lover. [Ok, could that sentence be any MORE soap opera-y? Eeeik. "Married ex-lover"? Great. My life has now become a fucking Danielle Steele novel. Please shoot me now.]
Sorry. Anyway, the visit lasted a few hours. It was weird. Pleasant. A little cathartic, even.
To be honest, I doubted her pain. Her blues were not like mine. How could 18 months compare to SEVEN years, I told people.
And then I saw her face.
There is a moment when you can look at a person and see a reflection of everything you went through, of everything you saw and did not want to see. I saw the arguments, the emails, the instant messages. The declarations of love, the promises broken, the clandestine hotel sex, the image of him walking away. All there, etched in the angles of her smile, her eyes, entangled in the bitterness of her laugh.
And on the way home the next day, sitting in the backseat of a rental car with "Pretty Wings" blaring from my iPod, I unraveled. The weirdly intense Wiscon experience coupled with the meet had broken me.
I think what bothers me most, in post-meet conversations with a few trusted friends, is that I will never get an apology. Because at the base of whatever we had was supposed to be friendship. That after so many years he could walk away unaffected and unscathed...still hurts, several years later. That this situation still has an effect on how I handle relationships yet he continues on without even attempting to atone for the damage done, because he does not care. Those years of crying and sleepless nights did not mean anything then, and do not now.
And then the conversation turned to sociopathy.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the friendship, if only because that part seemed genuine. At least I want to believe it was. I want to believe that I did get the chance to see the real him, if only in brief glimpses.
But we are strangers now.
A few months ago when I stumbled upon his Twitter I considered forgiveness. Blame the nostalgia of the holidays. Even added him to my list. Ten seconds later, I took him off. I cannot force forgiveness on someone who is not interested in it, and I cannot make him care enough to seek it. And it is not up to me to extend the olive branch, anyway.
I've played "Pretty Wings" over and over and over because in my fevered imagination, it is the apology he will not make, the validation he cannot give.
I came wrong, you were right
Transformed your love in to a lie
Baby believe me I'm sorry I told you lies
I turned day in to night
Sleep till I die a thousand times
I should have shown you better nights better times better days
And I miss you more and more
...and I have to live with that, even if it isn't easy.
Oh look, the sun has arrived. I suppose I should lie down now.